His nose had been broken when he was human, but he never bothered to shape-shift the signs away.
It didn't detract from his looks any; in fact, it sort of gave him a dashing scoundrel persona.
"And you, as usual, look completely different. What are you calling yourself these days?"
His voice carried a faint British accent left over from many years spent in London after leaving the slave plantations of Haiti.
He kept that accent and the French expressions of his childhood only for effect; when he chose to, he could speak American English as flawlessly as I could.
"Katharina."
"Katharina? Not Josephine or Hiroko?"
"Katharina," I reiterated.
"Very well then, Katharina. Let me see you. Turn around."
I spun around, like a model, letting him get the full effect of this body. When I faced him again, he nodded with approval.
